


Worship

by AgentInfinity



Series: Sexcapades: A Love Story [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Worship, Christianity, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, I wasn't sure if I should tag it because I'm not sure people will notice, Mentions of homophobia, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Pre-Threesome, a really really REALLY vague allusion to sexual abuse, and how it sucks a lot of the time, but better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 21:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18416246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentInfinity/pseuds/AgentInfinity
Summary: How worship has shaped my life in various ways. ;)





	Worship

The family that adopted me lived in a rural town in West Virginia. Everyone, almost literally, in that town and all the towns surrounding it went to church. If not three times a week, then two. The ones who went only once were usually either excused due to their jobs or quietly discussed in artificial concern about whether or not they were backsliding away from God. The question asked when you met someone new was never, “Do you go to church?” but “Where do you go to church?”

So, in this predominantly white, Christian town, things could get pretty difficult to navigate for an Asian kid with white parents.

Predictably, I threw myself into church with a gusto I would later realize was desperation. Desperation to belong, to understand. To believe in something.

Let me preface this by saying that actual sweet, caring, non-judgemental Christians do exist. I know them. I’m friends with some of them. They accept me as I am, don’t try to convert me at every turn, and actually embody the ideals I think Jesus probably was trying to get across. (I would never presume to know the kind of pressure the J-man was under, but I’m only three years younger than he was when he was strung up on a cross and tortured to death, and as someone who has spent a large amount of time screaming into the void and desperately hoping to be heard, I bet he spends a horrendously large amount of time facepalming at the State Of Things.)

What it mostly boils down to is this: These days, I don’t know if I believe in higher powers or one almighty being or floating space gods who spend a lot of time fucking with us for their enjoyment, but having had a lot of interactions with the type of “God-fearing” people who use religion as an excuse to grasp their prejudices to their chests and declare that they know what separates the holy from the hellbound, I’d rather just try be a good person while alive and hope for the best after I kick it.

That being said, for almost half of my life, I went to church with my parents every time the doors were open. I studied the Bible and prayed for forgiveness and bought in like my soul depended on it because I was taught that it was. I participated in church plays and bible school and taught Sunday School classes to the pre-K group. I cried as I prayed on my knees for forgiveness for things I was told were wrong as a pastor laid his hands on my head and called for God to take my burdens.

I found belonging in Wednesday Night Youth Group. Youth conventions taught us that the music on the radio was pulling us away from God, and that only in togetherness in the Spirit could we steer each other on the right path. We also stayed up until the wee hours of the mornings in hotel lobbies giggling and talking about cute boys or girls we’d met during that week. We learned about hellfire and damnation and the grace of Christ at humid summer camp meetings and revivals before taking plates of casseroles and sticky rolls and watermelon to the kids’ tables. We would wash the sugary stickiness off our fingers and faces under the water pump set in a concrete slab next to the revival tent. Once the sun went down on those days, there’d be a campfire and marshmallows and songs. All of us there were only children, but we forged bonds under the enormous pressure of living up to such unattainable, godly expectations.

I was baptized in a frigid mountain river when I was nine on a sweltering day in August. Wrapped in a white robe, I was plunged under the water and when I was brought back up, I actually felt a renewed sense of purity. When I say I bought into these teachings, I fucking _bought in_. I thought I could sense something divine when I listened to the teachings each week. When I prayed every night. When I sang the hymns from the ancient hymnals and my chest got tight.

Funnily enough, the first time I made the choice to have sex, it was six years after that baptism and only a few feet away on a large, flat rock jutting out over the river, still warm from the summer sun.

Around the time I started to suspect that maybe I wasn’t completely straight (I didn’t even know the word “bisexual” existed yet), my beliefs started to crack. So-called “men and women of Christ” committed acts that, in my opinion, were the antithesis of the teachings of God. They purposefully made me feel like an outsider, a cast-off, when asked about sexual identities. People I’d known since before my memories really started became other people altogether once I opened my eyes at the real reason for their kindnesses.

Shattered and depressed, I quit attending services. I refused to go and after many fights and many hours spent on friends’ and acquaintances’ couches, my mother and main proponent of Living a Godly and Pure Life, relented.

One of the members of the youth group talked me into going to one last week-long camp meeting when I was sixteen and in the throes of trying to figure out my sexuality. I got caught letting a youth counselor, only one year my senior, finger me instead of going to the campfire to sing songs and pray.

Much to my relief, I was never invited back.

For a very long few years, I tried to find things in which to believe. Something that would ground me and give me that feeling of peace I’d never been able to reach since my faith had splintered into pieces too tiny to ever reassemble.

I slept with a lot of people in different arrangements and discovered kinks and had a lot of complicated conversations, both with myself and other people, in trying to decide on exactly what I identified.

Sometimes I still prayed, hoping that the shame I felt for falling so far from God was something not so ingrained that I couldn’t someday shed it completely.

My journey also led me to discover alcohol and recreational pharmaceuticals, which would be the cause of so many good and terrible things to come.

Nothing ever gave me peace like I’d felt sitting in the pews and singing “Just As I Am” and “In the Garden” after a sermon. Ecstasy came close a few times, but, strangely enough, the after effects were never quite as satisfying. Not to mention all the sweating and teeth-grinding.

Then, I met Jason. He wasn’t the only influential person in my life I ever slept with, but he was and is the most. Through him and a handful of others, I learned about dominance and submission. It helped me to relax enough to shut down the overactive part of my brain much in the way I used substances to do. It was directly because of this that I learned about body worship.

The memory is so vivid, even now, almost a decade later. Jason and I had just gotten back together after what would be our last break up. It was Thanksgiving break, and I had the apartment to myself. All of my roommates and those few others who frequently couch-surfed through our place had gone home for the break. I still had some shifts left at the restaurant where I waitressed before being able to go home for a few days. Jason came and stayed with me, doing contract design work from his ancient laptop on our choppy internet while I flitted in and out working my shifts and starting preparations for finals. We had only rekindled our relationship a week or so prior after our longest break, which had lasted about five months.

I had only just stopped taking any drugs, pills and pot freshly vacated from our premises, and although alcohol was still in play, it was in more moderation than ever before. My blood felt like it had become magnetized whenever I stopped moving, fizzing and jumping in my veins until I had to get up and move, clean, exercise, do _anything_.

After a couple days, we had slept very little and had even less conversation, which was part of the reason Jason had come to stay. We had about a million things to try to talk our way through, and my inability to sit still or concentrate had sabotaged that from the start. (Furthermore, my tips had taken a considerable dip because I was too preoccupied with the buzzing in my brain to remember more than two things at a time.)

While I was in the middle of scrubbing the grout in the kitchen backsplash at some indeterminate time after midnight, which was when Jason had gone to bed, he suddenly reappeared and tossed me over his shoulder. His purple Less Than Jake shirt would forever have bleached spots on it where I dripped cleaner on his back in the confusion of suddenly being upside down.

“Listen, you need to rest. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’ll crash and be right back where you were a few months ago.” He was carrying me down the hallway, to, I presumed, my bedroom, but he passed it up and we ended up in the bathroom instead. I had cleaned it before my shift that afternoon, and it had never been so clean. Even upside down, it looked flawless.

“I _can’t_ get my head to stop. It just keeps fucking… _going_ , and I can’t relax. I can’t be still.” By this point, Jason had set me down, turned on the shower, and started stripping off first my clothes and then his own while the room slowly filled with steam.

“I know. I watched you wash the baseboards today while you talked to yourself about radiation and hydrolysis. I googled it. I’m really impressed you can do that chemical equation in your head.” I leaned my forehead against his chest and sighed, unable to relax my muscles even as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me flush against him.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t remember the drink orders for a five-top, and I only got a five dollar tip on a hundred dollar bill.”

“That’s because people are shitty, not because of you.” I didn’t reply, so he just ushered me into the shower and followed me in, reaching for my shampoo and giving me a questioning look. I nodded and cast my head down, closing my eyes and trying to focus on the feeling of him massaging my scalp as he washed my hair. Over the next fifteen minutes, the maximum amount of time in that apartment before the water was nothing but ice, he washed me head to toe, complete with conditioner for my hair and the expensive Clinique face wash that belonged to one of my roommates. I resolved myself to try my very hardest to remember to leave them some money or something for it.

He dried me off gently and wrapped me up in one of the big bath sheets I’d gotten from my grandma when I’d started college. She’d wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be exposed when walking from the bathroom to my dorm room. I adored her.

Instead of picking me up again, he merely steered me out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, dimly lit by the tiny desk lamp situated on a stack of textbooks in the corner. I felt less manic, but still uneasily twitchy as he pressed me gently back onto the bed.

“Stay here,” he ordered lowly, not quite the heated voice that could make me go wet and weak in less than a second, but something related to it. Less heat, but with the same intention. I obliged, gripping the edge of the towel and twisting it back and forth between my fingers. I didn’t want to move, but I felt physically unable to hold my body completely still. He grabbed a pair of boxers from his bag and slipped them over his hips before taking the towel he’d slung over his shoulders and scrubbing the excess water from his hair. He hung the towel over the closet door and turned back to me, my muscles tight to the point of cramping in an effort to hold still. He crawled over me and gently pried my fingers from the edge of the towel, opening it up until I was lying completely exposed under him. The joints in my fingers creaked when I finally let go, but he didn’t acknowledge it except to press his his lips to them. He let them go and stroked my hair back from my face, leaning down to kiss me, slowly and sweetly at first, but it quickly grew into him taking over, his tongue openly exploring my mouth and overwhelming me with… _something_. Something intense and new.

When he pulled back, the fingers of his left hand still tangled in my hair and holding my head flat against the bed, I saw what that something was. Devotion. A lump formed in my throat, but I refused to let it grow into tears. I wanted to see him look at me like this for as long as possible. I felt pinned to the spot, suspended, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel the need to fidget at all.

After a few moments or hours or seconds, he broke the moment and pressed himself against me, leaning on his elbows and running a hand across my cheek and down the side of my neck, coming to rest across my throat, not pressing, but heavy.

“I am going to work you over, from your feet up, and you’re going to lie here and take it. If you want to stop, just say so, but if you don’t, you let me go at my speed, okay?”

I didn’t want anything slow or measured or gentle. I wanted frantic and rough and something to tire me out enough to get a couple hours of sleep.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk straight,” I countered. He grinned but otherwise didn’t move.

“If you want anything, it’ll be what I’m willing to give you. That’s my final offer.” I rolled my eyes and tried to look away. The intensity of his gaze was becoming too much. The feeling of being held down was usually very calming, being anchored to one spot helped me stay present and keep my mind from marching off on its own, but Jason doing it with nothing but his eyes felt like a new level of being stripped bare.

He grasped my chin firmly, but not unkindly, and turned my face back to his.

“Do you want this or not? No pressure, but I do want to try it. To try and help you, even a little.” His voice had gone soft, something less authoritative and more warm. It made me want to kiss him, so I did. When I pulled back, I nodded and rested my head back down on the bed.

“Feel free to let me hear you. I do enjoy feedback.” He flashed me a cheeky grin and nipped at my nose before sliding back down the bed and kneeling in the floor at the bottom of it. I grabbed a pillow and slid it under my head so I could see him comfortably, and with one more glance at my face, he leaned down kissed the top of my right foot. His thumbs found the pressure points in the sole of my foot and began to massage, lightly enough that it wouldn’t hurt, but not so gentle that my ticklishness would sabotage the mood. After a while, I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the pillow, relaxing as much as possible, letting him switch to the other foot without comment and sighing as he kissed each of my toes and continued up to where my foot met my ankle. The same massage treatment was lovingly given to that foot before he gripped my calf muscle and pressed slow kisses to my shin as he continued massaging with the strong and able hands I adored.

I didn’t want to say anything to feed his ego because there was never a time when he would be lacking in ego, but the slow drag of his lips up my lower leg and the kneading hands I had a kink for worked my muscles until tension of which I wasn’t even aware dissipated and floated away. 

While moving from my left knee to my right ankle, he took a second to flick his gaze up with the same look in his eyes that had taken me aback earlier and whispered, “I love you. You’re so beautiful. I swear if I could do this for days, I would.” Moving languidly like he really did have days to heap attention on every inch of me, he brushed his lips against the inside of my ankle, rolling my foot around in slow circles until the joint felt loose and liquid. That leg got the same treatment as the other, and he slowly made his way up past my knees and thighs, ignoring the part of me that was steadily growing wetter by the second and moving to my hips instead.

He lavished attention on the bones of my hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh between my ribs and holding me tightly. In any other instance, it might have been painful, but it just felt right, as if he was holding onto me in a desperate attempt to keep me there and present. It was beginning to work. Tension and anxiety had seemingly wrapped tendrils into my muscles and even deeper into my nervous system until I had no idea which thoughts were my own and which were irrational paranoia. That had been building for weeks, but the tight, suffocating feeling that had cocooned around me began to loosen as he kept kissing and massaging his way up my abdomen and across my ribs. In my mind, I was naming the parts of each bone and joint as he pressed soft kisses and playful nips of teeth to them.

Time passed in a nonlinear, indeterminate way. Fingertips stroked against my breasts, my neck, and wrapped themselves in my hair, curling as it dried in the cool air of the room. My foggy brain registered lips and tongue and teeth pressing into my skin, my muscles, my bones. Nothing mattered beyond the deluge of loving touches, mostly light and gentle even as they were unyielding. I could hear panting and moans but didn’t immediately realize that they were coming from me.

The bed jostled, and the touch I had become accustomed to ceased, clearing away some of the fog in my brain. Once I had opened my eyes and gotten them to focus, I looked down to see Jason settling himself between my legs, bending them outward and baring me to him.

“You okay?” he rasped, raising an eyebrow at me, and in any other instance, his expression would have been smug as hell. I was sure that I looked utterly debauched, and he hadn’t even gone near my cunt yet, which was dripping onto the towel thankfully still beneath me. Jason could claim to be many things, but humble wasn’t usually one of them. The look in his eyes, though, made me want to cry. It was so full of love and devotion that I almost couldn’t bear to look at him, but I also wasn’t able to look away. I had never before felt anything so powerful in my entire life.

Honestly, the love of God had nothing on this. (To be fair to the big man, though, as someone who was currently being worshipped within an inch of her life, I could see the appeal of people worshipping you every day. It definitely had its merits.)

Not trusting my voice to be steady around the lump in my throat, I only nodded and blinked, trying and failing to keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks. He reached up and wiped at the wetness on my face, and I turned into his touch, swiping my tongue out to lick his thumb as he slid it across my lips. I took it into my mouth and sucked lightly, swirling my tongue around it and pulling a gasp from him. I smirked around his thumb and winked, feeling slightly less like I was going to sob uncontrollably. He understood my innuendo, and huffed out a laugh.

“Mmm, another time, baby.” He let his hand rest lightly against my throat, his thumb spreading wetness across my pulse point. The roughness in his voice just made me drip more, my pussy throbbing in anticipation.

When he finally slid two fingers into me and began lapping around them, the noise I made couldn’t even be classified as a moan. It felt like it had been ripped out of my chest without my permission and ended in a choked off sob. He worked me with his fingers and tongue in every way he knew would take me apart. The sounds were wet and obscene, and every time I managed to lift my head to look down at him, his gaze met mine, hungry and determined.

I came once, and then again soon after, squeezing my thighs around his head and crying out nonsense that I didn’t have a chance of remembering. When my mind was finally able to comprehend my surroundings, I was lying on my side with him curled warmly around my back, a quilt wrapped around us. My face was soaked, and I was hiccuping every so often as if I’d been crying.

I’d been crying. Jason was rubbing little circles on the skin of my arm and stroking my hair, shushing and making other little noises that didn’t mean anything but were comforting all the same. After some effort, I had evened out my breathing and quieted down, staring at the little water stain on the wall under my window. For the first time in so long, my mind and body were both quiet. I felt loved, and even my neuroses and esteem issues couldn’t touch me in that moment. My soul felt like it was soaring, and I finally slept unburdened by nightmares and panic.

Much, much later in my life, I would lie Cas out on our bed and use what Jason had showed me so many times over the years. The devotion I had learned so early, had felt so deeply both as a young churchgoer and as someone with a husband who developed a strong body worship kink over the years was put to good use. I grinned as I pressed kisses to the bones of her ankles, the flesh of her thighs and the jutting bones of her hips, drawing noises from her with every movement.

Afterward, I would wrap myself around her like Jason did that first time, my hand pressed against her chest as her heartbeat slowly returned to normal, and know that worship can be so much more than I ever thought possible.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Comments can convince me to write more things. Writing prompts or questions can be sent to my [tumblr](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com). I take Les Mis prompts, angst or otherwise, but if you have something else or a request for something original, pass it on. <3<3


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